


The Fragile Thread

by CyntherinShade



Series: Re-Formation [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Gen, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock-centric, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-27
Updated: 2012-11-27
Packaged: 2017-11-19 16:51:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CyntherinShade/pseuds/CyntherinShade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty's plan has come to fruition and the Reichenbach Hero has fallen. Sherlock has given up everything to save his friends but his mission is not over yet. He will ensure their safety or die an already dead man. Behind him is London, and all he died to protect. Before him only danger, but he will not rest until he can rise from the grave and return to the city and the people loves.</p><p>- A prequel to the Re-Formation series -</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fragile Thread

Sherlock sat on the floor of the morgue. His eyes burned, his chest hurt, he felt like he was going to vomit. Molly was there, her arms wrapped around him. His head was pressed against her chest. He could hear her heart beat. He wanted to move his head. He wanted to push her away; instead he clutched her closer. There was blood everywhere. It was all over him and now all over her. Her jumper would be ruined, he thought absently. She would have to throw it out. His clothes were soaked in blood too; not his own, someone else’s. A plant. It was all part of the plan.

 

The plan had gone perfectly.

 

Why did he feel like this?

 

He was sobbing, he realized. It was strange; he felt a disconnect. His mind and his body were in two different places. His body was grieving, his mind was numb. He thought of John’s fingers taking his pulse. He buried his face in Molly’s ruined, bloody jumper. He sobbed harder.

 

\-----

 

Eventually, he sobered enough to move. He stripped out of his clothes and settled himself on the autopsy table, closing his eyes. Molly told him she was just going to do a few things with makeup; make it look convincing. He grabbed her hand as he went to apply the fake incision to his chest.

 

“Do it,” he told her, the first words he remembers saying.

 

She protested. He was in enough pain. “Do it, or I’ll do it myself.” She must have seen something in his eyes, because she picked up a scalpel. It was only the first few layers of skin; enough to make him bleed. Enough to make it look real. He never made a sound, but the pain made him feel real. She cleaned the cuts and stitched him closed, her eyes steely. She hated herself. He hated he’d done this to her. To all of them.

 

_It was necessary._

 

Molly pulled the thin sheet up to his shoulders, then used her powders to give him a deathly pallor; it didn’t take much. All he had to do was lie there, she told him, she was just going to take a few pictures for his file. It wasn’t necessary, but if an ID was needed she could give them the photos to use. Bart’s had plenty of information on him though to make a positive ID.

  
Besides, no one would contest his suicide.

 

\-----

 

He was dressed in the clothes of a corpse. Molly had taken his things away. Too recognizable. He sat on the cold metal of the autopsy table, staring down at trousers that weren’t his and boots that weren’t his and was feeling entirely not himself. Molly was gone. He was supposed to wait. She told him to wait. She’d be right back. Getting rid of his things, she said. Getting rid of Sherlock Holmes. He was no one, now. An everyman. A no-man.

 

Sherlock closed his eyes again. He imagined the face of his friend. _You did the right thing. You saved John. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade._

 

_John..._

 

The doors opened and Molly reentered, tears streaming down her face. He didn’t know how long she’d been gone. It felt like forever. It felt like no time at all. She’s been crying. He found it hard to feel concerned as to why, though not because he didn’t care. It hurt too much to feel the concern. It hurt the emptiness that sat in his chest.

 

“I saw John,” she sniffed, and he stiffened. She wiped her eyes and straightened her back. She was trying to be strong. Poor, sweet Molly. She swallowed her tears, but was shaking her head. Not good. “I gave him your things. Your coat, your scarf.”

 

He stared at her. He wasn’t sure what he said, he couldn’t feel his face move, couldn’t hear his own voice.

 

“He needed them, Sherlock. Needed something of you. I lied to his face, I had to give him something! Better he take them than they go to the incinerator.”

 

Sherlock felt himself nod. John had his things. That was good. Molly said it was good. He needed them. Needed something. John deserved better than that, but Sherlock couldn’t think of what that could be.

 

He’d made sure John lived, so far. It was time to ensure that fact.

 

Moriarty’s web was going to be undone.

 

Sherlock would keep John alive if it killed him.

 

\-----

 

Molly snuck him out a back entrance. He was wearing a hat and spectacles and a coat that didn’t fit properly. She had even cut his hair differently. He felt foreign inside his own skin. It was perfect.

 

Inside his coat pocket was a wad of cash. It was an almost obscene amount of money; his methods of procurement were positively shameful, but absolutely necessary. Dead men had no use of money and where he was going he would have no use of cards. He couldn’t risk being tracked. His phone had been left in the box, now in John’s possession. For the better. He wouldn’t have any need for that either.

 

He wondered if John would find the recording.

 

\-----

 

It was amazing how easily people forgot faces; the slightest change could make someone look a familiar person over. Spectacles, a knit cap, a tattered coat; he looked just like one of his Homeless Network. The perfect disguise. He stood at a distance, watching the funeral procession. It was a quiet affair, with small attendance. Mycroft was there, unsurprising. Anthea as well, her mobile nowhere in sight; actually surprising that she had the decency to put the device away. Mrs. Hudson was crying into the shoulder of the funeral director. Lestrade and the rest of his team stood apart from everyone else, shame hung over them like a cloud. Mummy was present, not so surprising, standing next to Mycroft with steely resolve. He thought he saw a trembling in her lips, redness around her eyes, but she was a Holmes and she kept her composure, even when burying youngest son in the ground. Even Molly, who knew the truth, stood dutifully by his grave.

 

John was curiously, _surprisingly,_ not there.

 

Sherlock felt a clenching in his chest. To fix it, he cut out his stitches.

 

\-----

 

He visited the graveyard daily, hoping, perhaps fruitlessly, that John would come visit the empty hole where Sherlock’s body was supposedly lain.

 

He wanted to see him. He needed to see John one last time, even though John wouldn’t see him. He had done all this for his friend. He _needed_ to see him. He just needed to see John alive.

 

Eventually, John came. He came with a teary Mrs. Hudson and flowers.

 

Mrs. Hudson cried and yelled at the empty grave, channeling her grief into other, more satisfying things. John was silent. So very silent.

 

He stood for a while after Mrs. Hudson walked off, her piece done.

 

John spoke and Sherlock felt it inside his head like pressure. John’s words filled him up. John was alive, he was unhappy, but he was alive. Sherlock half listened to what John said, mostly focusing on the pitches and intonations. He wanted to memorize the sound of John’s voice, keep it with him. It would be a long time before he ever heard it again. If he ever heard it again.

 

There was one thing. One thing that yanked him back into awareness.

 

“There’s just one more thing, one more thing, Sherlock. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don’t...be...dead. Could you do that? Just for me. Just stop it. Stop this.”

 

_Don’t be dead._

 

Sherlock leaned back against the tree, staring determinedly into the distance. His resolve was like a blade inside him.

 

_I’ll try, John. For you, I’ll try._

 

\-----

 

He sat on the train, head down, body curled in on itself. A backpack was trapped between his knees and his chest. Inside the backpack was all he had left; the money, a journal, pens, a change of clothes, a stolen pistol. He’d added a ratty hoodie to his disguise; he looked and felt like a homeless man. For all intents he was. He couldn’t go home again. He’d already waited too long to truly leave it.

 

He hugged his legs a little tighter, glaring at the floor across from him. He was going to tear down every last thread of Moriarty’s web.

 

Every. Last. Thread.

 

\-----

 

A month and a half after his death, Sherlock had tracked down the first of the three gunmen. It had taken him six weeks of following leads, gathering information, _questioning, hunting, testing, failing_ , to finally narrow down one. Charla Milverton; a mercenary for hire. A favourite of Moriarty’s. She’d held the gun on Lestrade. She was the first stop on a long journey.

 

He’d found her on a market street in Hannover, Germany. It was almost poetic in a way; the fallen “Reichenbach Hero”, in Germany for his revenge, the revenge of his friends.

 

Milverton saw through his disguise; she was not happy to see him. She looked as if she’d seen a ghost. She may as well have.

 

She pulled a gun from within her coat and shot at him before he could disappear. The bullet winged him in the arm, splitting him open at the shoulder. He hissed, diving out of the way toward shelter. People were screaming and running, it was chaos. Milverton swore loudly at him, her voice growing closer.

 

“Come on out, you bastard. I don’t know how you’re not dead, but I’m going to fix that.”

 

He crept behind a row of vehicles, slipping behind a stall on the street. She was on the hunt now, he could see her searching for him. She didn’t realize he was already behind her. He was staring at her back; a perfect advantage.

 

He crept up behind her, using the crowd’s noise as a cover. He threw an arm around her neck and grabbed her gun arm with the other, twisting it up to where she couldn’t do any harm. She struggled to break his grip, then reached up and dug her fingers into the gun wound she’d just given him, bringing a pained scream from his throat. In response he twisted her gun arm further, shoving the rest of her away from him so that her shoulder was wrenched painfully.

 

She dropped her weapon. _Advantage, increase 10% in his favour._

 

Milverton whirled on him as soon as he released her, bringing her elbow crashing across his face hard enough to split his lip. They fought, exchanging blow after blow, a trained fighter against a trained killer. He kicked her in the ribs. She punched him in the stomach. He backhanded her. She kicked his legs out from under him, knocking him to the ground. His head bounced off the pavement, the pain blinding him for a moment. He felt wetness where his head had hit the ground.

 

Sirens began singing in the distance.

 

She swore again, grabbing him by the ankles and dragging him down the street, to where he had no idea. He was vaguely surprised at how strong she was, but the thought was lost in the desperate scramble as he twisted on the ground, trying to reach the stolen pistol in his waistband. His clothes rode up as she yanked him along the pavement, scraping up his back and side. He heard the gun slide loose, clattering on the ground.

 

She heard it too.

 

She dropped his legs. He grabbed his gun.

 

_Advantage, increase in his favour, 60%._

_Odds of success; 100%_

 

She leapt for the gun. He pulled the trigger.

 

The sirens wailed closer. Her body sank to the ground beside him, blood rushing out of the hole he’d just put in her chest, painting the pavement red, red, red.

 

It was over in a matter of minutes.

 

Sherlock stood, shoving the gun in his coat pocket and running down the street, away from the scene. He was bleeding and shaking. The gun felt like lead, heavy as sin. His first kill. The first death at his hands. He was shaking. He felt ill. He ran.

 

He didn’t stop until he got back to the dirty hovel of a motel room he’d rented. He stripped out of this clothes roughly, exposing his wounds to the air. The sight of the gun wound tipped him over the edge. A few inches would have meant his life. She hadn’t had that chance; those few inches. He’d shot her. He killed her.

 

He vomited in the sink.

 

\-----

 

_He was in his mind palace, standing in his bedroom. It was safe. Quiet. Peaceful. Here was all the things important, all the things he cherished. Material possessions were gone, his mind and memories remained._

 

_“First time you’ve been here in a while.”_

 

_He turned around, surprised. A voice so familiar. A face so well-known._

 

_“John.”_

 

_His friend smiled. Not his friend. Here. Not here. A compilation of memories, grown from a seed of desperation. A figment. A creation._

 

_“You must be desperate if you brought me here.” John sat in an armchair, his leg crossed so that his ankle rested on his knee._

 

_Sherlock frowned. “You wouldn’t understand.”_

 

_“You never let me understand.”_

 

_He buried his face in his hands. “I did it to protect you.”_

 

_“I know. For being such a genius, you can be a bloody idiot, you know that?”_

 

Sherlock opened his eyes. His hands were on his face. He had John. He always had John.

 

\-----

 

The next step was much simpler, and yet much more delicate. Infiltration. Exposition. He was already hunting down the next gunman, and in the meantime he would take apart Moriarty’s crime force. Suppliers, tacticians, paid labor. Wealthy businessmen and poor men alike. He wouldn’t kill them, no. They had done him no personal affront. They were merely tools at Moriarty’s disposal. He would instead let them rot in jail, in favour of rotting in the ground. It seemed fair.

 

He posed as a janitor, a worker, a day-labourer. The lowdown and the dirty. The one no one looked too hard at, but who heard everything. This was how he got his data, and with insider’s information and anonymous tip-offs, one by one they fell.

 

He never saw the arrests take place, merely read about them in the newspapers. He never stayed around long enough to see the end result of his work. He was already on to the next target.

 

\-----

 

It had been eighteen weeks and three days since he’d jumped. One hundred and twenty nine days. Sherlock counted to himself. Counted how long he’d been away. How many days it had been since he’d seen Real John, not just Mind Palace John.

 

In one hundred and twenty nine days he’d killed one gunman, put away two suppliers responsible for funding Moriarty’s endeavors, and countless other small time criminals that had been used for his dirty work.

 

One gunman dead out of three was still two gunmen alive.

 

_“You can do better than that,” John told Sherlock when he closed his eyes; when he escaped away from the hell hole he was living in. It was a blessing to see the beautiful walls of his Palace bedroom, to see the familiar, crinkled face of his friend, as opposed to the empty, hideous shelter papered with dirty files and crumpled photos where he hid._

 

_“I’m trying. I’m only one man,” Sherlock answered bitterly._

 

 _“You need someone else,” John said, the corners of his mouth curling. He seemed satisfied with the knowledge that Sherlock actually_ needed _someone._

 

_Sherlock frowned at the truth of it. “I told you I was lost without my blogger.”_

 

_“You have me,” John answered, leaning forward in his seat in the desk chair._

 

_Sherlock stared. “I do.”_

 

_“Take care of yourself. Work hard. Stay safe. I still want you to come home. I only asked you for one thing, Sherlock. Remember that.”_

 

Sherlock came back to himself suddenly, sitting on the edge of his cot. His hands were gripping the frame so tightly his knuckles were white. John had only asked one thing of him.

 

_Don’t be dead._

 

A scrap of paper slid under the door; his Austrian contact. He stood, picking up the note. It held only two words, that would have little significance to anyone if they didn’t know the purpose.

 

_Taranto, Italy._

 

He began to tear his collection from the walls in earnest, shoving them into his backpack. Pens, papers, notebook, meager supplies, dwindling cash; all of his possessions fit in the bag so easily tossed on his back or into a corner. He was one step closer. One precious step closer. To Italy then. He owed a man a visit.

 

\-----

 

He sat in the baggage car of the train, crouched among suitcases and trunks and bags. The pistol was in his hand, clutched tightly against him. His backpack full of evidence and few possessions was behind him, sheltered between his body and the wall. He was the picture of a desperate man.

 

He was definitely a changed man.

 

His hair had grown out some, hidden beneath his knit cap. Facial hair had sprouted along his jaw and over his lip. What few pounds he’d put on while living with John were nowhere to be seen, and had in fact taken several more with them; he was practically skeletal. His bright, pale eyes were sharp, ever-aware as always, and glimmered with something that suggested paranoia. The bags beneath his eyes were deep, making him look bruised.

 

He was exhausted. So, so very exhausted.

 

Hugging the gun to his chest he spared himself a moment to close his eyes.

 

_“You look like shit.” John told him as soon as he slipped into his Mind Palace. Sherlock smiled wryly in answer._

 

_“Lovely to see you too, my friend.”_

 

_John laughed. “Really, you do. Not doing such a great job taking care of yourself, I see. You’re a mess without me to look after you.”_

 

 _"You always knew I would be, didn't you?"  Sherlock sighed. He loved and hated this. Seeing John was pain and relief. This John was not real. Not_ his _John. But, he couldn’t do without this John._

 

_"You managed without me before."  This John that reclined on the windowseat was no less real to Sherlock than his own breath. His words were so true to form that Sherlock could forget that he was a figment._

 

_"Managed and thrived are two very different things, my dear John."_

 

_It was uncomfortable to admit such a thing, in a way. He needed John so much more than John needed him. In fact, he needed John so much that he had created a fictitious version of his friend while John was home safe in London. The knowledge was bittersweet._

 

_"Don't get all mopey on me now, Sherlock. You promised me you would take care of yourself. I can't look after you all the time now. Only when you're here."  John stood, seeming to fill the spacious bedroom. "You damn well better step up and do my half of the job when I can't be there to do it myself."_

 

_Sherlock sighed. "I'm trying, John."_

 

_"I know, Sherlock. I need you to try harder."_

 

_"I will." Sherlock took a step toward John, as if proximity to the memory of his friend would give him strength._

 

The train shook, jolting him back to awareness with the feeling of falling. He gasped, nearly dropping the gun. His body was cramped, and his chest felt hollow in a way that left him almost struggling for air. Being ripped from his Mind Palace, from John, was a terrible thing. He took a few slow deep breaths, straightening his back and stretching out. No one had come into the baggage cart for hours, he was probably safe to lie down for a bit. His body needed it so badly.

 

He wedged himself between the wall and a rather large trunk, using his backpack as a pillow and he laid down on his side. The gun stayed in his hand, tucked against his chest. He closed his eyes, sinking into unconsciousness for the first time in too long.

 

\-----

 

Taranto was filthy. Literally.

 

Sherlock couldn’t have possibly imagined a dirtier city. One couldn’t have possibly existed. Taranto was on the books as being the most polluted. Now that he was there, he wasn’t surprised at all. It seemed like the perfect place for a scum of a man to hide.

 

He was there hunting the second gunman; the one assigned to target Mrs. Hudson. John Clay. The name enough gave him pause, wrenching hard at that curiously empty space in his chest and leaving him reeling. To gather his wits again he mentally catalogued himself; _gun, waistband, ammunition, left pocket, Clay’s address, back pocket, evidence, backpack._ The things he would need to complete his mission reminded him of his purpose, pulled him back to himself. He hiked the backpack up on his shoulder and started through the streets.

 

The air felt coarse in his lungs, exhaustion pulled at his weary bones, his dirt-streaked skin itched desperately. He wanted to find somewhere that he could curl up and sleep for a week.

 

No, no he didn’t.

 

He didn’t want to waste a second of time. He wanted to find Clay and remove him from the threat list, by any means necessary. Pulling the address from his back pocket he looked it over again, before pulling aside a stranger on the street to ask for directions.

 

It was not the first time Sherlock was glad he had a mastery of several languages.

 

\-----

 

He stood outside the Cattedrale di San Cataldo di Taranto. It was a beautiful building, historic; cherished. A place no one would think would house a criminal; a murderer. It was perfect really, a sinful man hiding in a holy house; fateful almost, if one believed in such things.

 

His contact told him this was where Clay was hiding, posing as a holy man; a man on a pilgrimage. He was there, alone, between masses, left to his quiet prayers in the sanctity of the church. Despite not being remotely religious, Sherlock found himself disgusted with the deceit. It wouldn’t last much longer, however, if he had anything to do with it.

 

He walked into the church, stashing his backpack behind a sculpture in the entrance. He didn’t want to risk getting it damaged or losing the contents. He could see a man, presumably Clay, kneeling at the altar at the other end of the room. It was almost surprising to see him actually praying, but it was all part of the act. If someone had walked in, as Sherlock had, they would have seen him.

 

Sherlock walked forward quietly, trying to get closer, looking for proof. He could easily have shot the man from where he stood, but he had no way of being sure it was Clay. There would be enough blood on his hands, without adding that of an innocent man.

 

The kneeling man stood at the sound of Sherlock’s footsteps, pausing only to cross himself before turning to face him, a welcoming smile on his face. Sherlock wasn’t fooled.

 

_Scar beneath left eye; knife wound from combat. Muscular form, militant stance, close cropped hair. Soldier. Calloused hands. Concealed weapons. John Clay._

 

He had his proof, but still he made no move. Of all the things he expected, he hadn’t anticipated Clay reminding him _so much_ of John. The way he held himself, the set of his frame, the color of his hair. He knew better, but part of him was reeling.

 

Clay’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. His hands drifted to the folds of his robe.

 

 _Move._ Sherlock heard John’s voice in his head and it spurred him on.

 

He strode forward, punching Clay square in the face before he had a chance to get a grasp on his weapon. Clay stumbled back a step, then barrelled forward, driving his shoulder into Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock fell, just managing to catch himself on his hands and knees as he was knocked over, but the stability was short lived when Clay slammed an elbow down over his back. He sprawled on the ground, his cheek pressed against the cold marble floor. Clay stepped on his hand.

 

“Who are you? Why are you here?” Clay growled.

 

Sherlock twisted to look up at him.

 

They stared at each other for a long moment before Clay’s lips peeled back in a grin that was anything but friendly.

 

“Mr. Holmes. A pleasure. I was so disappointed when I thought I wasn’t going to meet you.” He ground his heel down into the bones of Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock grimaced and choked back a cry of pain. “I could kill you now, you know, Mr. Holmes. I _like_ to kill people. But that wouldn’t be fun. I much prefer a bit of struggle.”

 

He stepped off, reaching down to haul Sherlock to his feet. “So, Mr. Holmes, we’re going to have a bit of fun before I kill you.”

 

Sherlock met his eyes. “That’s terribly ambitious of you,” he said, then slammed his frontal bone into Clay’s nose.

 

The fight quickly turned into bedlam; a maelstrom of blow after blow, dodging, blocking, hitting and being hit. Sherlock was hardly in any condition to be fighting with such vigor, but there was really no choice in his mind. He landed a blow to Clay’s abdomen, causing him to double over briefly and allowing Sherlock a breath. He was bleeding from his cheek and a split lip, one eye was swelling, he was bruised all over. Clay was laughing.

 

He leapt at Sherlock, brandishing a knife that he had been concealing in his robes. The blade split his clothing and flesh as easily as tearing a sheet of paper, leaving a gaping, gruesome maw of a wound across his chest.

 

Clay struck again, but this time Sherlock dodged; using Clay’s momentum against him.

 

_Run. Get some distance._

 

He backed away a few steps and bolted from the room, running aimlessly through the length of the church. He needed to find somewhere secluded, a place to regroup.

 

\---

 

He found himself in the belltower.

 

Up and up he ran, spiraling round the staircase, Clay thundering behind him; recovered. He reached the top, a landing around the bell, nowhere to go. Clay would be there in mere seconds..

 

_You bloody fucking idiot._

 

A knife flew by him before he had the chance to free his gun from his waistband. He whirled to see Clay come to the top of the stairs, an array of knives now clutched in his fist. They stood facing each other, regarding the situation.

 

“I could shoot you,” Sherlock said calmly, looking Clay dead in the eyes. The other man grinned. He would put a knife in Sherlock before he’d even drawn the gun; they both knew it.

 

“And I could put a knife in your heart from here. But that’s not a challenge. I’d like to have a little more fun than that if one of us is going to die.”

 

He was insane. No wonder Moriarty had chosen him. To him death was no more than a game; someone wins and someone loses.

 

Sherlock was determined to win.

 

Clay handed him a knife slowly, keeping one for himself and tossing the rest to the floor with a clatter. The fight started quickly, an exchange of blows and slashes. A trading of wounds. Clay sliced him across the shoulder. Sherlock returned the favor by gouging a line into his arm.  Clay answered by punching him in the face, knocking him backwards. Clay slammed into him again, pushing, twisting, flipping.

 

He found himself hanging on by his fingertips, suddenly draped against the side of the bell tower and clinging to the windowsill.

 

“Well, well, Mr. Holmes. Here we are. I could pull you in, or I could crush your hands and watch you fall. This could be quick, or I could draw it out. Do I want to kill you myself or let nature take it’s course?”

 

Sherlock was thinking. _0% survival rate in this position. 0% survival rate if pulled into the tower. 10% survival rate with risky maneuver._ He was so close. He’d gone so far, and he was going to die.

 

 _Let go._ John’s voice in his ear. _Now._

 

He did.

 

He caught the next ledge down, just barely, wrenching his shoulders painfully. It took effort but he managed to haul himself inside, falling to the floor in a heap. Clay swore above him, and he heard the hammer of feet as his killer came for him.

 

Sherlock reached behind him, palming his stolen gun.

 

Levelling it at the stairs he counted steps, hearing Clay bang closer, closer, closer still. Finally, he was in view. Sherlock pulled the trigger. The bullet pierced him sidelong through the chest. Clay never saw it coming. The body ragdolled down the rest of the stairs to the landing. Sherlock heaved a sigh of relief.

 

_Two out of three._

 

\----

 

He cleaned his wounds at the hostel, waving off the concern of those around him that he should see a doctor. He couldn’t afford a doctor. He was proficient enough at stitching his own injuries by now, regardless. They were ugly stitches; the wounds would certainly scar, but they were closed. Anywhere he couldn’t reach he bandaged closed and hoped for the best.

 

\----

 

The next location was France. He’d been given use of a small empty house owned by one of his contacts. It was strange to have the space to himself; to not be crammed into a corner by people or things. He could breathe. It hurt his chest.

 

He lay on his back on the small bed provided to him, sweating with mild fever. The gash in his shoulder hadn’t taken well; he must have missed something when cleaning it. It wasn’t enough to kill him, no, he made sure of that, but it was certainly an inconvenience.

 

He sighed, drifting, sinking into himself.

 

_John sat at the foot of the enormous bed, barefoot with his legs folded in on themselves. He toyed with something in his hands; a knife. “That was really dangerous, you know.” There was sadness to his voice._

 

_“I know,” Sherlock answered._

 

_“You could have died,” John said._

 

_Sherlock stepped forward. “You helped me.”_

 

_John smiled slightly. “I did. I’m trying to keep you alive, you idiot. You’re making it hard.”_

 

_John leaned over, stashing the knife in the bedside table drawer. A memory; stored. That close encounter would stay fresh in his mind for a long time. “Two out of three, Sherlock,” John acknowledged. “You’re doing really well, keep it up.”_

 

_Sherlock didn’t know what he was doing, but suddenly he was holding onto John’s arm. “I want to come home,” he whispered, feeling for all the world like a child._

 

_John laid his hand over Sherlock’s. “I know you do. And you better.”_

 

When Sherlock opened his eyes he was alone.

 

\----

 

Moriarty had a small vein in Ireland. That was where Sherlock went next.

 

He’d hardly even settled himself into the motel room he’d managed to bargain for when the phone rang. He stared at it as it trilled on, begging to be stopped. He’d said no phone calls. No one should have known he was here.

 

He grabbed the receiver and didn’t say a word.

 

“That was a terrible thing to do, brother, making us all believe you’re dead.”

 

Sherlock’s heart stopped.

 

“Mycroft. I’m impressed it took you this long.” His words had no bite to them.

 

Mycroft was silent for a moment. “Two high priority assassins in Moriarty’s employ suddenly turn up dead, and it wasn’t my men doing it. It raises questions, and you have to know the right people to ask.” He paused, clearing his throat. “You’re a hard man to find.”

 

“Good.” Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to say more.

 

Mycroft sighed. “I could---”

 

“No. I have to finish this,” he cut his brother off. “One more. One more and then I’ll come home.”

 

There was a long moment of silence. “Alright. Alright. Just call if you need anything.”

 

A beat. “I have to go,” Sherlock said tersely.

 

Another sigh. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re not dead.”

 

“For now, as far as you’re concerned, I am.” He hung up the phone.

 

\----

 

One hundred and seventy three days. Five months and twenty days. He’d been gone nearly half a year. There was still one more gunman to find.

 

Sebastian Moran.

 

\----

 

While he hunted after Moran, Sherlock went about tearing down more of Moriarty’s cursed web. With a web of his own and hundreds of eyes everywhere he exposed a counterfeiter, a smuggling agency, a bomb maker and countless other contacts of the consulting criminal.

 

Whole corporations fell from the inside out, crumbling from their corruption. It didn’t take much. Some of them had been under the eyes of various criminal investigators for years; they just needed the right information, and Sherlock was there to give it. A slip of paper here, a photograph there; the contents of his backpack lead to the downfall of many.

 

Tearing down the little threads gave him no satisfaction; it was simply keeping his hands busy while he searched, while he waited. The days ticked by like weeks on their own.

 

\----

 

The note was passed to him on the street, slipped into his palm unseen.

 

_Tianjin, China_

 

Moran was found.

 

\----

 

He stashed himself away on a cargo plane, the pilot an old contact he had once done a favour for. She didn’t question why his calling in of the favour was to hitch a ride on her transport, simply showed him where he could best wedge himself for a relatively comfortable ride. He ended up between two crates in a corner, shielding himself in a little hovel. His long legs were folded up against him and he leaned back against the wall of the plane, letting the loud drone of the engines drown out the worst of his thoughts.

 

This was the last step. This, and he could go home. One last man. One last kill.

 

The thought was dizzying, though he had a hard time distinguishing whether it was from fear or thrill. If he survived this, it would be all over. He could turn the rest over to Mycroft; leave the rest of the organization to his brother. He would be done. He would wash his hands clean of Moriarty’s men and return home, return to Baker Street. To John, if John would have him home.

 

_Watch your back. Stay alive. Come home._

 

_Don’t be dead._

 

\----

 

The plane landed in at the designated warehouse, and Sherlock slipped away unnoticed. He was not in Tianjin, he still had some way to go, but he was in China. He was closer to Moran than he’d been in months; closer to the man who’d held a gun to John’s head, who threatened to scatter bits of it all over the streets outside of Bart’s.

 

Sherlock planned to return the courtesy.

 

Determination settled inside him with a deadly stillness.

 

He began the first steps toward the end of his journey.

 

\----

 

His chinese was terrible; rusty and stilted from years of not using it. He’d never mastered reading it, too many symbols cluttering up his mind, but what he did grasp of spoken was little help to him. It took him days to find someone travelling to Tianjin, and who would take him along with them, but he got there all the same.

 

Finding Moran within the city would be another challenge altogether. It was huge; an industrial center. Sherlock could not fathom why this was where he chose to hide himself, but there they both were.

 

He begged a room at a local inn, doling out what little money he had left, and settled for one last night.

 

The room was small and poorly lit; conditions Sherlock was no longer unaccustomed to. He collapsed on the bed in his dirty clothes, using his backpack as a pillow and quickly willed himself to his only true remaining sanctuary.

 

\----

 

_John was reclining on his bed now, legs stretched out and arms folded over his stomach. He was the picture of ease and Sherlock envied him that. John would have been so calm right before the proverbial storm. He was used to this; to danger, to putting his life on the line time after time._

 

_“Not something you really get used to,” John countered his train of thought._

 

_Sherlock half-smiled. “I will find him tomorrow. Could be dangerous.”_

 

_“Isn’t it always?”_

 

_It was, where they were concerned. Always dangerous. “How very true, my dear John.”_

 

_John flexed his feet and threaded his fingers together. “He was going to kill me,” he said simply. If only Real-John understood so well._

 

_“He was. I’m going to kill him.”_

 

_“You will. Do you feel guilty?”_

 

_Sherlock shook his head, sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to John. “Not at all.” He would have killed a hundred men to keep them safe._

 

_“Good. Guilt will get you killed.”_

 

_He stilled. “John. I’m frightened.” Here he could admit it; to himself, to this construct of John. He’d nearly died several times, but this was the end-all and he, Sherlock Holmes, was terrified._

 

_“Good,” John said flatly in answer. “A little fear will keep you alive.”_

 

\----

 

Three days it took him to narrow down Moran’s location. Three days of asking, of bribing, of trial and error. Three days, and he had him.

 

He was working in an auto battery factory, and rumour had it he had found a way to sleep there at nights, in the underbelly of the building. Sherlock was going to find out. At nightfall he was going to make his way down and see for himself the sniper who had threatened his best friend.

 

\----

 

It was dark; dangerously so. He crept carefully through the building, gun in hand. It wasn’t as comfortable in his palm as John’s had been, but it served him well. It had killed two assassins, perhaps it would kill a third as well.

 

He descended into the underground of the factory; a network of tunnels and storage rooms. It would be the perfect place to hide if one knew how to play their cards; Moran certainly did. The halls down there were impossibly darker, leaving Sherlock to rely almost entirely on his sense of touch. He walked along the right wall, skimming by, his ears sharp for sounds of movement. He could smell traces of petrol burning; a heater being used to keep warm.

 

He literally just had to follow his nose to find his last target.

 

\----

 

Moran was in the center of a large, but predominantly empty storage room; the door to which was wide open. He obviously wasn’t much concerned with security finding him. They probably didn’t even care.

 

Sherlock ducked into a shadowy corner and took a moment to assess his chances.

 

 _55% probability of survival; close quarter combat, hand to hand, with the addition of surprise lent the advantage in his favour._ The room was boiling; the heaters must have been running at maximum for hours. Moran was a man used to heat, Sherlock was not. _Recalculate probability of survival: 50%, ability to cope with temperatures in fight lends advantage to Moran._

 

The air smelled like stagnant water and a little like rusted metal; _hazardous conditions, unknown terrain. Recalculate to 47%._

 

His odds were slowly dwindling, but he refused to back down. He was not going to turn away from this. He was going to kill Moran, and he _would_ survive, because he had to; for John, he had to.

 

 _For you, my friend, I’ll come back from the dead._ Sherlock had promised him; he had sworn it on his own grave.

 

He carefully crept out of his hiding spot, keeping close to the wall and an eye out for cover spots. Moran was a trained gunman, specializing in sniping, and Sherlock had no idea what weapons he had at his disposal.

 

_Possession of a gun affects odds of survival; recalculate to 5%. No gun, odds remain stable._

 

Moran was leaning over something, unaware of his presence. The distraction was a benefit, allowing Sherlock to creep up behind him, footsteps disguised under the clatter as Moran dug around through his things.

 

Sherlock pressed the gun to the back of Moran’s head. “On your knees,” he ordered lowly, his voice a growl.

 

Moran froze, hands coming up.

 

_Shoot him. Now._

 

Sherlock waited a second too long. Moran spun, grabbing Sherlock’s gun hand and twisting it. His elbow connected with Sherlock’s side and he wrenched the weapon away, tossing it so that he could put his free hand around Sherlock’s throat. His crushing grip lessened when surprise took him, recognition crossing his face.

 

“Ah, our little jumper. I thought you were dead...how’d you manage that? I watched you fall.” Curiosity got the better of him.

 

Sherlock coughed when he managed to swallow down a gulp of air. “I shook hands with the Devil,” he spat.

 

Moran clucked his tongue. “You’ll have disappointed Jim. He would have been so thrilled to see you survived, though. He’d want to know how.” He let go of Sherlock’s throat completely, stepping back with a smug smile on his face. “Granted, as soon as he figured it out he would have killed you himself. No second chances, you know. Might have even let me have the honour.”

 

Sherlock gasped, drawing in great gulps of air. “What did you do with him? My sources told me the body was gone from the roof shortly after my suicide. All cleaned up, no scene left. I assume it was you. The others weren’t that loyal.”

 

Moran was beaming proudly. “Clever, clever, detective. Yea, I stashed the boss in a freezer. It was all part of the plan, you see, if it came to that. They couldn’t find him, or it would’ve ruined everything. You killed him.”

 

Sherlock scoffed. “Hardly. He swallowed a bullet to make me kill myself.”

 

“And yet you’re still walking. I knew I should’ve pulled the trigger on the doctor, anyway. Would have made things so much cleaner.”

 

Sherlock’s blood hit flash point, igniting in his veins. Moran’s smile spread wider. Sherlock promptly elbowed him straight in the mouth and was gratified with the sight of blood.

 

Moran laughed through the red in his mouth. “Struck a nerve there, did I?” He kicked Sherlock in the chest.

 

“Don’t want me to talk about your little Johnny boy?” A fist met his cheek. Sherlock countered with an uppercut, snapping Moran’s head back.

 

“Ooh, feisty,” he bared his teeth, backing up slowly. “Come on, detective. Only one of us is leaving here alive, and I’m betting on me. Wanna play one last game for ol’ Jim?” He still served a dead master. “I’ll give you a chance to live Holmes. Catch me if you can.” He took off running into the dark. Sherlock followed, abandoning his gun in preference of taking Moran’s life with his bare hands.

 

He tore after the assassin in the dark, pushing off walls and following the pound of footsteps.

 

_Left. Left. Right. Left. Stairs._

 

He barrelled up the stairs only to get a boot to the face and be kicked right back down them. He rolled to a stop on the landing, groaning in the near pitch black. He should have kept silent, but he couldn’t help the sound escaping. His entire body suddenly felt like one large bruise.

 

“Tsk, tsk. Did you fall down, Holmes?” Moran taunted him, but Sherlock kept still, hearing the slide of metal on leather as Moran unsheathed a knife. Well, that was unfair.

 

“Here, let me help you up.” Sherlock moved just in time to avoid the blade as it sought to sheathe itself in his body.

 

Moran let out a bark of laughter. “Oh, quick little fucker, aren’t you.” He struck again, aiming low. The knife sank deep into the meat of Sherlock’s thigh and he howled in pain. “Strike one!”

 

Sherlock gripped his wound, trying to staunch the flow. It made it difficult to move, let alone walk. He was little more than a sitting duck like this. It didn’t stop him from trying to limp out of the way, though.

 

“You should’ve just stayed dead, Holmes. It would have been so much faster. A fall is a much more pleasant way to go than what you just brought on yourself.” Sherlock slumped against the wall, only just able to make out Moran’s shadowy form as it moved steadily closer to him. The assassin struck again and Sherlock dropped, just barely slipping away from the deadly weapon.

 

“Quick, and crafty too! No wonder Jim was so amused by you.”

 

The fourth blow Sherlock didn’t see coming, but he certainly felt it. Hot pain flared in his side and he grunted, too stunned to shout. Moran had just stabbed him in the ribs. He grabbed at the wound, feeling the torn skin and his already limited vision narrowed to pinpoints. Moran had essentially killed him.

 

_Don't. Be. Dead!_

 

No. John.

 

He had promised John---

 

Sherlock pushed himself up along the wall, using it for support. If he was going to die he was bloody well going to take Moran with him.

 

The knife came again, slashing at his head. He ducked painfully, barely avoiding losing his face. The blade skittered across the wall, and Sherlock drove his shoulder into Moran's chest. When the knife arm swung around again, he was ready.

 

He grabbed Moran's wrist, twisting it until he dropped the knife. The metal clattered on the floor. Before Sherlock could gather his next plan hands closed around his throat again. Moran knocked him down, pinning him to the floor as he choked him.

 

"I knew I should've just done it. I should've shot him. Cracked his head open with a bullet."

 

Sherlock struggled to breathe. To break away. The shadows were creeping in closer.

 

"I should've painted the streets with bits of John Watson. Leaving him alive was _boring_."

 

Sherlock reached out, desperately looking for something to help him. Anything.

 

"Perhaps I will after I'm done with you.” Moran gave him a shake and slammed his head into the floor. “Holmes and Watson, dead together. I'll take him out right in your shitty little flat. Put a bullet through his broken heart."

 

His hand closed over the hilt of the knife, just enough grip to pull it to him.

 

"Say goodbye, Holmes."

 

Sherlock smiled through white hot rage. "Goodbye," he choked out between gritted teeth, then drove the blade into Moran's throat. Blood dripped on his face and he pulled the knife free before shoving it in again.

 

He stabbed Moran over and over until the grip around his neck was gone, until Moran collapsed unmoving, until Sherlock's fury was spent. He stabbed him thirty seven times.

 

Moran was dead; unrecognizable.

  
Sherlock was dying.

 

John Watson would live.

 

\----

 

He couldn't believe he was still alive.

 

\----

 

The blade amazingly hadn't pierced his lung. When he realized he wasn't coughing up blood he inspected the injury, finding a gouge through his bone instead of the puncture he expected.

 

Never before had Sherlock believed in luck.

 

\----

 

It wasn't one of his best ideas to treat his own wounds.

 

\----

 

The infection that took to his leg was absolute agony. He was sweating and shaking. The skin around the puncture was bright red and inflamed. It hurt to touch. He couldn't even clean it.

 

Suddenly, he was certain he was actually going to die. This killer came silently.

 

\----

 

_“Come on, Sherlock,” John said, “Pull it together. You promised me.” His dark blue-green eyes were worried, reflecting Sherlock’s fear._

 

\----

 

Sherlock gave in and went to a local hospital; there was no one left he cared to hide from anymore. There was no risk of exposure, of discovery. Milverton was dead. Clay was dead. Moran was dead. Three out of three gunmen, assassinated. Countless accomplices arrested. His deed was done; his work complete.

 

The doctors tried their best but the infection was deep, wreaking havoc on his entire body. Antibiotics hardly helped. Herbal remedies did little. He couldn’t move. He could barely stay conscious. He was in agony. He began to fear he would lose his leg completely.

 

He only hoped Mycroft would prove himself useful for once, and find him before that happened.

 

\----

 

He loved being right.

 

\----

 

He was medevaced to the Heraklion hospital in Greece; a top ranked hospital where he was given a private room under a false name and treated by specialists flown in specifically for his treatment. His brother’s reach never failed to impress. The first two days were spent in surgeries for his injuries, cleaning his wounds, treating his infections, doing a number of blood tests, and so on. He was poked, prodded, swabbed, pricked and scrubbed. It was an exhausting process. These past eight months had been exhausting.

 

He was skeletal thin and haggard. He really just wanted a shower and a shave, but he didn’t trust his body to support him long enough.

 

He wanted to sleep.

 

\----

 

When he opened his eyes Mummy was sitting next to his bed. He was too worn to be shocked, or to ask questions. He simply looked at her and waited. She reached out and laid a cool hand on his cheek.

 

“You’re not dead.” It was not a question. It was not a statement filled with awe. It was simply a fact.

 

“No, Mummy,” he agreed, surprised at the comfort he took from her hand. It had been so long since he’d felt the simplest affection. From her. From anyone.

 

Her eyes searched his face. “I suppose you’ll not explain to me what you’ve been doing all this time you’ve been supposedly deceased?”

 

“I very much doubt you would want to know,” he answered honestly. How many mothers would want to know their son, who was supposed to be dead, had killed three people instead? She pursed her lips in answer, gathering all she needed from his face alone. She would observe, she would see; he could hardly hide it from her, but he would never speak the words. She would never hear it from his own lips.

 

“Will you tell me how you survived?”

 

He gave her a weary smile. “A magic trick and a bit of luck.”

 

She shook her head, frowning. He could see the wear on her. She had lived eight months believing her youngest son buried in the ground. He lifted his hand, careful of the IV, and placed it on hers. “I almost didn’t,” he murmured softly.

 

“I know,” she said, her words almost inaudible, “I’m glad you did.”

 

They sat in silence for a long time.

 

\----

 

With the infection gone he was left to physical therapy; a grueling experience. He refused to return to his life in London the battered man he was, bearing the reminder of the dark days he’d just passed. He refused to walk with this last hand of Moriarty showing itself, to let him win that proverbial battle. They trained his leg endlessly, working the ruined tissue back to usability. He didn’t care about the weight he had lost, or the weakness in his bones, or the scars across his body, or the weakness in his leg.

 

His only lasting goal was just to be able to walk on his own two feet when he went home. When he returned to Baker Street. To John.

 

\----

 

Mycroft worked tirelessly to pave the way for his return. When Sherlock was finally discharged from the hospital, he essentially had his whole life back in his hands. His death certificate had been pulled, his autopsy reports mysteriously disappeared, everything officially declaring him a dead man; vanished.

 

He was Sherlock Holmes once more.

 

\----

 

He set foot in London and all but collapsed for the relief of familiar ground beneath his feet.

 

\----

 

He stood, staring at the door to two-two-one-B. It was unchanged. So much was unchanged.

 

_Two hundred and forty three days._

 

In his hands he held a key and a simple bouquet of white carnations and tulips. It was Valentine’s day, he was told. Tradition said you brought flowers to loved ones.

 

Sherlock slid the key into the lock and opened the door.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my BETA Lauren, and Vivi for her insight, support, and for starting this monster of a project with me.


End file.
